


Whatever You Like

by justkisa



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-05 08:39:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6697747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justkisa/pseuds/justkisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raheem sits in Aleks' lap, unbuttons Aleks' buttons, and admires Aleks' tattoos. Aleks returns the favor (well, the unbuttoning of buttons and the admiring of tattoos). Make-outs and heavy petting ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever You Like

**Author's Note:**

  * For [guti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/guti/gifts).



“Uh,” Raheem says. His fingers are tangled in between the top two buttons on Aleks’ sweater. He untangles them and starts to pat Aleks’ chest then fists his hand instead and says, “Okay, so…” 

Everything had seemed easier a moment ago. When Aleks had been kissing him and Raheem had just kept pushing closer, closer, _closer_ , until they’d toppled back onto the sofa, Aleks laughing against his mouth. But now he’s sitting astride Aleks’ thighs, Aleks’ hands on his hips with no idea what to do next. No idea where to start. 

Aleks smiles a little and says, “So what?” 

“What,” Raheem says. He uncurls his hand and rests it on Aleks’ chest. He hooks his fingertips under the edge of the v-neck of Aleks’ sweater just above the first button. The silky-smooth cotton of Aleks’ dress shirt is warm from being pressed between Aleks’ sweater and his chest and the edge of his tie brushes against the tops of Raheem’s fingers. “Uh, what now?” 

Aleks taps his fingers against Raheem’s hip. “Whatever you like,” he says. 

Raheem looks at Aleks’ mouth first and responds second. Aleks smirks. “Right,” Raheem says, looking away and taking a slow, deep breath, “Uh, okay.”

He looks back. Aleks is watching him. Staring in way that makes Raheem feel suddenly too warm, like his collar is too tight. He shifts forward until his knees bump into the back of the sofa. Aleks’ hands ride up as Raheem moves, sliding up his sides, pushing his shirt and sweater up, and nudging his shirt out of his waistband. Then, when Raheem stops, when he’s as close as he can get, when he has Aleks’ thighs, warm and solid, between his legs, Aleks resettles his hands on Raheem’s hips. His fingertips brush across Raheem’s bare skin. And Raheem bites his bottom lip and digs his fingers into Aleks’ chest. 

“Whatever you like,” Aleks says again. His voice’s dropped to a low, gravely rasp. “Okay?” 

Raheem doesn’t know what he wants. What he _likes_. Hasn’t thought this through beyond wanting to be _closer_. Beyond wanting Aleks’ hands on him, wanting him to push his hands up under Raheem’s shirt, dig his fingertips in Raheem’s skin and pull him _closer_. But Aleks is sitting so still under him. Watching him. Waiting for Raheem. 

_Whatever you like._

Raheem flattens his hand against Aleks’ chest. He can feel it rising and falling underneath his palm. Slow and steady. Raheem can’t make his own breathing slow down. Aleks is staring at him. Waiting.

Raheem stares back. Aleks is still fully dressed. Is still wearing his jacket. Raheem’s jacket is on the floor somewhere behind them. Raheem wants—

_Whatever you like._

He can’t stop thinking about that. Can’t stop—

He slides his hand up Aleks’ chest until his fingertips brush against the little button at the tip of Aleks’ collar. He unbuttons it. Well, he tries, one handed. It doesn’t exactly work. Aleks huffs a little, almost a laugh. Raheem pokes him. “Shut up.” 

Aleks laughing at him is weirdly reassuring. It reminds him that this is just Aleks. Aleks who gives him shit _and_ reassurances in training in equal measure (and sometimes at the same time). Aleks, his partner on the left wing, who he trusts on the pitch well enough to want to trust him off of it. Aleks who kissed him back when Raheem set all the reasons not to aside and kissed _him_. Aleks who is sitting so still under him, waiting, not rushing him, willing to let Raheem take what he wants, when he wants. 

_Whatever you like._

He uses both hands and gets the button undone. “See,” Aleks says, way too amused for Raheem’s liking, “Not so hard.” 

“Thought,” Raheem says, while he works on the button on the other side of the collar, “I told you to shut up.” 

“Okay. Okay,” Aleks says. He squeezes Raheem’s hips and shifts a little underneath him. His thighs rub against Raheem’s in a way that makes him want get _closer_ even though he’s as close as the sofa will let him get. 

Raheem tugs Aleks’ tie up out from under his sweater then runs his fingers up it until he gets to the knot at the top. The backs of his fingers bump against Aleks’ chin, his stubble rubbing rough against Raheem’s knuckles. Aleks tips his chin up. His mouth is open, lips slightly parted. When they’d kissed before, his stubble had been prickly against Raheem’s skin. Raheem wants—

He curls his fingers around Aleks’ tie and leans in to kiss him. He thinks - _hopes, wants_ \- Aleks will pull him in, will slide his hands up under his shirt, and kiss him with the same aggressive desperation as before. But the kiss never becomes more than what Raheem makes it. Just the firm, careful pressure of Raheem’s mouth against Aleks’. He nips at Aleks’ lower lip. Aleks hums a little, low and pleased, and slides his tongue along Raheem’s lower lip. But he doesn’t press. They kiss, slow and deliberate, until Raheem stops waiting for something else to happen, until there’s just the warmth and pressure of Aleks’ mouth moving against his own. 

When Raheem pulls away, he’s sweating, collar sticking to the back of his neck. His hand is curled so tightly around Aleks’ tie that the nubby material of it’s digging into his palm. He licks his lips and Aleks makes a hoarse, choked off sound. Raheem’s mouth is tingling, skin around it prickly-warm from the rub of Aleks’ stubble. He takes a breath. It’s unsteady and ragged. Like he’d just sprinted the length of the pitch. 

He uncurls his fingers and rests his hand flat against Aleks’ chest. He takes another breath. And it’s a little steadier than his last. He starts tugging at the knot of Aleks’ tie. It takes him a few tries to get it undone. But Aleks doesn’t laugh he just digs his fingers into Raheem’s hips. Raheem pulls Aleks’ tie free from his collar. The sound of fabric sliding against fabric seems very loud. Raheem tosses the tie away and doesn’t look to see where it lands. 

 

Raheem undoes the top button of Aleks’ shirt. Then the next button. He pushes the fabric apart and his fingertips slide along Aleks’ skin and catch in the dip of his collarbone. Aleks shifts under him. Raheem undoes another button. Now he can see some of the dark lines of ink that decorate Aleks’ skin. He drags his finger along one of the lines. Follows it to the edge of Aleks’ shirt. And Aleks pushes up, a quick and jerky movement of his hips, enough to jostle Raheem. Raheem wants to push back. To grind down against Aleks. But he also wants to see more of Aleks, to undo all his buttons so he can put his hands on Aleks’ bare skin.

He pushes down with his hands. Aleks stills. “Raheem?” he says. Just that. Just Raheem’s name said like a question. His voice rough and low. 

“I want to—” Raheem starts. He undoes another of Aleks’ buttons. 

“Okay,” Aleks says, rubbing his thumbs along Raheem’s hips, “Okay.”

Raheem wants to rush. To grab the edges of Aleks’ shirt and pull as hard as he can. Get to Aleks’ skin. It makes him clumsy. The small buttons of Aleks’ shirt are slippery under his sweaty fingertips. Then there’s Alek’s sweater. Another layer between him and touching Aleks. It’s easier to unbutton. Its buttons sliding undone easily even under Raheem’s fumbling hands. He gets all of them undone and pushes it open. There are more buttons underneath. Aleks is warm. His shirt’s a little damp with sweat. The fabric’s gone limp. Raheem crumples it in his haste get those last few buttons open. He can see more and more of Aleks’ skin. He pulls the edges of Aleks’ shirt apart with each button he unfastens so he can see more and _more_. Aleks shifts a little each time Raheem’s fingers brush against his skin. Like he can’t stop himself. Raheem likes that. Drags his fingertips along Aleks’ skin so he’ll do it again and _again_. 

When he gets to the waistband of Aleks’ pants, he stops. Pauses there. His fingertips pressed to the smooth leather of Aleks’ belt. The fabric of Aleks’ pants just brushes against the sides of his wrists. He could shift his hands down. Put them on Aleks’ dick. Touch with his hands what he can see. That Aleks wants him. That he’s hard for him. 

He slides his hands back up. And Aleks makes a low, ragged sound. Raheem tugs Aleks’ shirt up out of his pants. There’s one last button left to undo. Raheem unfastens it. His knuckles brush along the fly of Aleks’ pants. Aleks’ breath hitches and his hips stutter up. Raheem shifts a little. Fights the urge to roll his hips, to match Aleks’ movement. He moves his knees so that his thighs are pressed against Aleks’ legs. Lets the tight press of their legs together be enough. For now. 

He fists his hands around the sides of Aleks’ open shirt and jerks it open. Pushes it as far open as it’ll go. Until he can see most of Aleks’ chest and stomach. Can see all the dark lines of ink and every defined centimeter of muscle. He doesn’t know where to touch first. Doesn’t know where to start. So he stares. Stares until Aleks squeezes his hips and says, “Did you do all that just to look?” 

Raheem drags his gaze up. Aleks smiles a little. “Well?” he says. 

Raheem lets go of Aleks’ shirt. He settles his hand over the compass on the right side of Aleks’ chest and runs his thumb along one of the lines of the map next to it. Aleks’ skin is so warm. Raheem can’t stop touching him. Can’t stop rubbing his thumb back and forth. _Back and forth._ “Better?” he says, pressing his thumb against the space between Europe and Africa on the map on Aleks’ chest. Aleks makes a pleased, humming sound. Raheem lays his other hand on Aleks’ stomach. Lets the warmth of Aleks’ skin seep into his palm. Luxuriates in the feel of Aleks - solid muscle under soft skin - under his palm. 

The first time he’d seen Aleks shirtless, Raheem’d wanted to touch him. It’d caught him off-guard, the sudden, visceral urge to put his hands all over someone he’d just met, barely knew. He’d wanted to start at Aleks’ shoulders and drag his hands down, wanted to trace his fingertips along every line of ink, to rub his palms over every centimeter of defined musculature.

Raheem slides his hand up Aleks’ stomach until his fingertips nudge against the teeth of the skull. He traces his fingertips along the edge of the skull, dragging them up along the edge of the jaw, the rounded curve of the ear, up along the top. He goes slow. He wants to remember the feel of every centimeter of Aleks’ skin. Wants to memorize the lines of ink with his fingers. 

“You, ah—” Aleks says and the low, gravelly rumble of his voice makes Raheem want to look at him, to see how he’s looking at Raheem, so he lifts his head. And Aleks’ is staring at him with a kind of focused, intensity that makes Raheem sweat, that makes his skin prickle with anticipation. 

Raheem swallows. “I, what?” he says.

“You like them?” Aleks says. 

Raheem looks back down. Drags his fingertips down along the side of the skull. Rubs his thumb over the flower covering the eye. “Yeah,” he says, “I do.” 

“I see you,” Aleks says, “See you stare at them. At me.” 

Raheem doesn’t know what to say to that. He always tries not to stare. But he never succeeds. His eyes are drawn to Aleks again and again. To the colorful designs etched on his skin. To the fit, trim lines of his body. And the more he got to know Aleks, the harder it became not to stare. Not to look as much as he’d dared. 

He slides his fingers along the jaw of the skull, under the flower. And stares. Because he can. Because Aleks had let him undo all his buttons, let Raheem push aside his clothes and bare his skin to Raheem’s gaze. 

“I like it,” Aleks says, “when you look.” Raheem slides his fingers to the edge of the teeth of skull. “When you—“ Raheem’s fingers rub along the edge of Aleks’ nipple and Aleks’ voice shakes. “Stare at me.” Raheem does it again. Deliberately this time. Drags his fingertips back and forth across Aleks’ nipple. And Aleks says something he doesn’t understand. Something choked and raw. And Raheem does it again. Turns his fingertips this time, scrapes the edge of his nails along Aleks’ skin, lets them catch the nub of his nipple. Aleks moans, low and guttural, the sound reverberating up Raheem’s fingers, clawing its way under his skin. It makes him want to replace his fingers with his mouth. Makes him want to lick and bite and Aleks’ skin, get the taste of it on his tongue. Makes him want to see what kind of sounds Aleks’ would make then.

He digs his fingernails into Aleks’ skin, presses them into the gray smudges and dark lines that circle Aleks’ nipple, and starts to dip his head. But Aleks digs his fingers into Raheem’s hips and says, “I look too.” And his tone makes Raheem still, because the rumbling, gravelly rasp of Aleks’ voice commands all of his attention. “I stare. I know I should not but I—“ Aleks slides one hand up Raheem’s side, along his chest, and over his arm. He drags his hand down Raheem’s arm and circles Raheem’s wrist with his hand. “I could not stop. Cannot—“ He squeezes Raheem’s wrist. Almost too hard. 

“I,“ he says, his grip loosening, “like—“ He draws Raheem’s hand away from his chest and lets go of Raheem’s hip, bringing his other hand up and unfastening the buttons at the cuff of Raheem’s shirt. He rolls up Raheem’s sleeve, fingertips sliding along Raheem’s skin in way that can only be deliberate. Raheem watches him, stares at the intent concentration on his face, holds his breath, and waits for Aleks to tell him what he likes.

Aleks pushes Raheem’s sleeve up above his elbow then he trails his fingers down Raheem’s bare arm. Tracing the ink etched on Raheem’s skin. “I like,” he says, as his fingertips trace, warm and soft, along Raheem’s tattoos, “these.” When he reaches Raheem’s wrist, he curls his hand around Raheem’s wrist. His grip just tight enough for Raheem to be very aware of his hand on him, holding him. 

Aleks rests his other hand just next to Raheem’s shoulder. Pressing his palm over the place where Raheem has a star inked on his skin. He can feel the warmth of Aleks’ palm through his sweater and shirt. “I like,” Aleks says, shifting his hand and pressing it to the place where Raheem has his other star, “these too.” He digs his fingertips into Raheem’s shoulder, fists Raheem’s sweater and shirt in his hand. “I want to touch them. Touch _you_.” He licks his lips. “Want to—“ 

Raheem kisses him. Swallows whatever it is Aleks wants and takes what _he_ wants. He can’t control the kiss this time. Doesn’t try. Just pushes and pushes until Aleks’ opens his mouth for him. Aleks lets go of his wrist and uses his grip on Raheem’s shirt to pull it up. He pushes his other hand under Raheem’s shirt. His hand is hot against Raheem’s skin. He drags Raheem’s shirt up, his nails scrabbling against Raheem’s skin. 

Aleks drags his other hand down, curves it along Raheem’s waist. Then he splays it across Raheem’s back, the weight and heat of it like a brand on Raheem’s bare skin. Aleks jerks Raheem forward and rolls his hips up. And they rub together in a way that drives everything else out of Raheem’s head. There’s nothing but the push-pull friction of Aleks pushing up, rutting up against Raheem, nothing but the dig of his fingernails into Raheem’s skin and the way he holds Raheem to him, hand clamped tight, like he thinks Raheem might slip away. 

“I,” Aleks says against Raheem’s mouth, “want—“ And Raheem doesn’t know when they stopped kissing. Doesn’t know how long they’ve been just panting against each others’ mouthes. 

“What?” he says, and doesn’t move away, because he likes the feel of Aleks’ mouth against his lips. 

Aleks kisses him, a quick, firm press of his mouth, and says, “This,” and slides his hand down Raheem’s stomach and molds it over Raheem’s dick.

It’s good. Even through his pants it’s good. He rolls his hips. Pushes against Aleks’ hand. “Oh, _oh_ ,” he says, because he’s too gone for words. He kisses Aleks, desperate and sloppy, made frantic by his desire for Aleks to just _touch him_. And he has to say something else, _wants_ to say something, has to tell Aleks— “Whatever,” he says, “you like.” Gives Aleks’ earlier words back to him. 

Aleks says something, bitten off and incomprehensible, and moves his hand, rubs it along Raheem’s dick. And, _fuck_ , the way it feels. Raheem has to pull away from Aleks’ mouth. Because he can’t breathe. Has to gasp in his next breath. When he gets his breath back, when he can speak, he says, “Please. _Please_.” 

“Okay,” Aleks says, his voice is wrecked and breathless, “Okay.” And then he’s unbuttoning Raheem’s pants, fumbling the zipper down, his knuckles rubbing against Raheem’s stomach. And even those little, nothing touches drive Raheem crazy. Then Aleks has his hand on Raheem’s dick. His hand is hot and a little sweaty. And it feels so _fucking good_ just to have Aleks’ hand on him. Aleks gets Raheem’s dick out of his pants and curls his hand around it. He slides his hand up and down, jerks Raheem with quick, rough strokes. 

Raheem scrabbles his hands up Aleks’ chest. Needs to hold onto something. To brace himself. He fists one hand in the edge of Aleks’ shirt and fumbles the other along Aleks’ shoulder, fingers sliding on Aleks’ sweat-slick skin. He hooks his fingers around Aleks’ neck, digs his thumb into his throat, just trying to get ahold of something. “Aleks. _Aleks_ , fuck.” And he’s going to say more, he thinks, going to— But he comes then. Fingernails dug into Aleks’ neck, one of the buttons of Aleks’ shirt digging into his palm. He holds on tight as he shakes through it. Keeps himself upright. Watches himself spurt all over Aleks’ fingers, his stomach. 

And, when he’s done, when he can do more than shudder, when he can think, there’s Aleks under him, panting like he’s the one who’s just come. “Aleks.” He unclenches his fist. Smoothes the crumpled edge of Aleks’ shirt. 

“Raheem,” Aleks says, then again, “Raheem,” desperate, like a plea. Raheem slides his hands down Aleks’ chest. Gets his palms and fingers a little sticky with his own come. He goes straight for Aleks’ belt buckle. Gets it open. Gets Aleks’ pants button open, then the zipper. Then, finally, he can get to what he wants. He scoots back a little, so he can see what he’s doing, and pushes Aleks pants open. Stares for a second at the way Aleks’ dick presses against the tight, white cotton of his underwear. Aleks makes a low, frustrated sound. “Raheem.”

He eases Aleks’ dick out of his briefs. Curls his hand around. Just holds it. Gets a feel for its girth. The way it feels, hot and hard, inside his fist. He swipes his thumb across the head and Aleks’ hips jerk up. “Raheem,” Aleks’ says, grinding out Raheem’s name like a curse and a plea all at once. Raheem moves his hand. It takes a few tries but he gets a good rhythm going. One that makes Aleks roll his hips and mutter things that sound like pleas but which Raheem can’t understand. He slides his other hand up Aleks’ chest. He scrapes his fingernails along one of the straight, dark lines on Aleks chest, then across Aleks’ nipple. Aleks groans, harsh and guttural, and Raheem does it again. He pinches Aleks’ nipple then twists it. And Aleks comes. Aleks’ come coats Raheem’s fingers, sticky and warm, and gets all over Aleks’ stomach. Raheem holds him through it, strokes him, until Aleks bats at his hand. “Enough, Raheem, it’s—“ And Aleks levers himself up, curls his hand around Raheem’s neck, and pulls him down into a slow, open kiss. “ _Mmm_ ,” he says against Raheem’s mouth, “so good.”

When Aleks lets Raheem go, he slumps back on the sofa, and smiles up at Raheem. And Raheem smiles back. Because Aleks looks so good, rumpled and utterly satisfied, and Raheem did that. “So,” Aleks says.

“So,” Raheem says back because he’s not sure what else to say. 

Aleks laughs a little. He reaches out and slides his hand along Raheem’s hip. “You are,” he says, pushing his fingers under Raheem’s shirt, stroking them along Raheem’s skin, “good?” We are good?”

Raheem nods. “Yeah,” he says, “‘Course.” 

“You want,” Aleks says, tapping his fingers against Raheem’s side, “to—“ He pauses. Then he says, hesitant and slow, “Ah, to stay? I meant it, ah, the invitation to dinner. It wasn’t just— I didn’t…” He trails off. 

Raheem had forgotten about that. About dinner. He really had. But, then again, they’d never even sat down, Aleks had barely invited Raheem inside, before he’d tipped up and pressed his mouth to Aleks’, too impatient - too _nervous_ \- to wait. Afraid that, if he waited, sat through dinner, he wouldn’t. And he’d wanted to so desperately. But he’d meant it when he’d said _yes_ to dinner. “Yeah,” he says slowly, “Okay.” 

Aleks smiles and pats Raheem’s side. “Okay,” he says, “good.”

Raheem smiles back. “So,” he says, “What’s for dinner?”


End file.
